Time to go back
by memelovescaps
Summary: It's been a year since Sherlock died. Watson, who has been unable to cope, returns to the cemetery where he said goodbye to his friend and shows his pain to the world. There, someone can't stand seeing his pain. Sherlock/Watson friendship, slighty slash.


_Hello everyone! This time I come with something from a fandom I've never written about, and it's Sherlock. If you hadn't seen the BBC series with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, I don't know what you're__doing without watching it! And if you've seen it, I hope you enjoy this small tribute I wanted to make to both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and their relationship. _

_**Title:** Time to go back_

_**Author:** Myself (Meme)_

_**Disclaimer:** The characters don't belong to me, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC, I only enjoy writing about them._

_**Warnings**: _

_1) Though I merely was trying to picture the friendship between Sherlock and John, it is possible (and it is also my aim) to see light slash between them. If you don't like male/male relationships, whether it is clear or not, don't read this fic. _

_2) this is the second fic I write in English, so if there's anything that you think it doesn't sound good, I'd like you to tell me, please. And sorry in advanced for any possible mistakes that this fic could contain. _

_3) Sherlock may be a little bit OoC (out of character) but I think it is very difficult to write about him in these kind of circumstances without doing it a little bit, I hope it is not too much._

_4) Perhaps I should mention that this is entirely what I thought after watching "Reichenbach Falls", I have only read Conan Doyle's "Hound of the Baskervilles" so I don't know how or when Sherlock returns. Excuse me for any incoherence with the original story. _

_And that's it, ENJOY!_

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><p><strong>TIME TO GO BACK<strong>

"John, I think it's time to…"

"Don't… say it" John's voice interrupted her. He seemed angry "don't tell me to go on"

"It's been one year now… you can't get stuck in the past… he is not coming back"

_Not coming back_… John clenched his fists, trying desperately not to get up and punch his therapist in the face. Though he knew she was right. It was just… it was too difficult for him to accept Sherlock was gone, forever.

_Maybe he can't recover. Maybe this is too much for him. _He had thought about that possibility, of course he had! He was Sherlock Holmes! But he had hoped that John would be strong enough, that after all _he_ was not so important to him. John Watson had been a soldier, a man in the middle of a war, used to violence, to _traumas_. Though can anybody be used to traumas? He perfectly knew the answer. But Sherlock Holmes, the man who was considered to have no heart, had fallen into the web of feelings and love. He knew what John felt for him, because it was the same he himself felt, but it was easier not to face the reality and have hope. _A fool's hope that would never be real _thought as he saw John walking through the cemetery, going around the tombs until he arrived in front of one in particular.

The tomb was a little eroded for the pass of time, but the name was still there. As clear as the first day, both in the marble and in John's heart. It still hurt. The feelings had changed, oh yes. At first he didn't believe it, after that he was angry, then he got used to seeing that familiar name on the stone, he too got used to that sort of depression that walked with him anywhere he went. From time to time there was the small hope that it was all a lie; that Sherlock would return one day and say "hey, I'm not dead, let's go for dinner". He had even heard the violin more than once, when the nightmares of Sherlock's face, bloodstained, came into his dreams, a sweet melody that helped him to sleep.

But now all was gone. What John felt now was even worse. It was resignation, resignation to a miracle that would never happen, resignation to the loss of the best friend, the best human being he had known. The loss of Sherlock Holmes.

The reality fell over John's heart as a jag of frozen water. One year later and he was in the same place, in the cemetery in front of that tomb, asking anyone for a miracle to happen. Because that was the only hope he had, if he lost that, he would lose his heart.

"Come on John, you have to overcome this. Please" whispered Sherlock to himself, feeling his eyes humid as he saw John falling on his knees, on the tomb. He was crying. He could hear his sobs, trying to be a soldier, not to lose composure. But he couldn't pretend anymore. That was it.

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. I've tried" Sherlock had to make use of all his willpower to stay where he was and not run to John. The detective stared at him; he had to close his eyes for a moment because the tears prevented him from seeing John. He felt those tears rolling through his cheeks, while he also was trying to keep calm. But he couldn't. He felt an acute pain in his chest, as if someone was grabbing his heart and wringing out every single drop of blood, every single hope for John that was kept there.

The sight of John crying, sobbing, shouting his name desperately was stronger than the rational thought. He knew he had done that for John's safety. He knew he would suffer, but it was better a grieving John Watson than a dead John Watson. But this… this was something Sherlock never expected. This was someone dead in life. John ate, worked, chatted, walked, shopped but he didn't really do anything. He was doing what he was expected to do, but not putting his heart on anything, because his heart was in that very spot, buried with who he believed was Sherlock Holmes.

And now, after a year of pretending and of trying to cope, he had returned. To accept in front of him that he couldn't, that he was still devastated, and that there was nothing in the world capable of relieving his damaged heart. Because John Watson was too important for Sherlock Holmes, as well as Sherlock Holmes for John Watson.

Sherlock took one, two, three deep breaths, trying to clear up his mind and think of a possible way of discovering himself to John and not killing him of surprise; for he had seen that John was in a very unstable emotional state, if he just appeared from nowhere he would faint. No, he had to be clever. _Come on, Sherlock, think, think_.

One footstep, two, three, four… he had lost count when he arrived to where John was, standing right behind him. He hadn't noticed anything; he was kneeling down caressing the letters of his name, going over the outlines with his fingertips, delicately, as if any abrupt movement could break them. Though the sobs were not so audible anymore, Sherlock could still see he was crying, his shoulders were shaking with every sob he did. It was now or never.

He held out his arm, he could notice his hand was shaking. John hadn't realized he was behind him yet, his breath was irregular. He placed his hand on John's shoulder, breathing with relief for the first time in one year, noticing a nice ticking on his hand.

John, on the opposite, was tense as he felt the hand on his shoulder. His mind tried to be fast, but only two people, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, would've followed him and the hand placed on his shoulder was from neither of them.

"I'm sorry, John" that voice. He could recognize that voice among thousands. That deep, solemn voice. His voice. His heart stopped for a moment, he didn't even breathe, all his body in tension, feeling the soft and slow caressing that those fingers were doing to his shoulder. No, it couldn't be _him_.

"John…" another deep breath, this was harder than ever, but he had to do it, he had to give him his heart in order to get John's back "I…"

"Please, tell me I'm not insane" John's voice was broken, devastated, just a glimpse of the absolute pain, horror and agony his heart actually kept. "Tell me I hear your voice because I'm dead… tell me this is not an illusion, please."

The last words, the last _please_, whispered, like if he had given up, made Sherlock react. His hand was still on John's shoulder, but with two footsteps he surrounded him, standing in front of the doctor. John's gaze settled on his shoes, and then slowly started to go up, looking at his coat, his trousers, his belt, his shirt… when he could see his face he couldn't help sobbing involuntarily, as if it was an illusion, another one of his tricky mind. Sherlock's hair was a little bit longer, but it was still black, curly, perfect, as well as his beard, black, to make him pass as incognito. When he looked at his eyes, however, he saw something he'd never seen. Tears, pain, guilt. Sherlock had suffered too because he could not go back, because he had to be the strong one. But no more.

"John, it's me… it's me" said Sherlock, his hand still on John's shoulder. He kneeled down as well, so close to John their knees were touching, and his right hand travelled to John's face. Beard, rings under the eyes, wet and irritated cheeks because of the tears and the constant gesture of John trying to erase the signals of defeat… all John's face was an evidence of his state, but above all Sherlock felt his heart was broken when he looked at John's eyes. There was no bright. Nothing that was in John's nature: kindness, happiness, life. There was only a huge and devastating pain, so big that it almost fooled Sherlock. But he was an observer, and when he looked twice at John's eyes, and could pass through the pain, a loneliness and necessity was waiting and it was so big that a dagger went through Sherlock's heart.

"No… it can't be… you"

Sherlock didn't say a word. His hand, which was still on John's face, went to his back, making him come closer. John closed his eyes and left his body at Sherlock's mercy, and the detective approached him until John's body was leaning against his chest. Sherlock's arms were around his body, hugging him, feeling John's heartbeat against his chest, but John was still tense, still not believing. He started caressing his back, soothing him and making the tension go away.

Suddenly John reacted, grabbing Sherlock's coat as hard as he could, so much that his knuckles were going white, but he didn't care. His whole body was trembling and Sherlock hugged him a little bit closer, trying by all means to make John relax. But what happened was quite the opposite, John started sobbing again, but this time he did not try to keep composure, this time he cried until his throat was ripped. He murmured unintelligible things, but among these Sherlock could perfectly understand his name, repeated with desperation.

The detective was at first surprised, not knowing what people usually do in these cases, he was not a man of showing emotions and he was definitely not good at comforting people. But it was John, _his_ John, and he was crying because of him. He leaned his head enough to have access to John's face, or at least what he could see because John was hiding it in Sherlock's coat, and started hissing in his ear, very gently, while one of his hands travelled to his hair and started caressing it. Slowly John started to calm down, the sobs became less audible, the grip of his coat less strong.

When they both separated, John took a deep breath before looking up and staring at Sherlock. There he was, different but still Sherlock Holmes in his essence, in front of him, staring at him with his penetrating gaze.

"She… Sherlock?" John's voice finally came in a question, a request of what was going on, if that was really true or if it was only another dream. Sherlock could see in his eyes a hint of hope, a hope he had thought lost but now was dancing in front of his nose.

"Yes, it's me" whispered Sherlock with his deep voice, smiling at John's and still caressing his cheek "I've come back."

"But… how?"

Silence followed that question. There was a lot to tell, maybe too much, but he had to.

"I… saw you… you were dead! How can…?" John was starting to breathe irregularly again. Sherlock's hand started caressing again his cheek, trying to give him serenity.

"You saw me falling… but you didn't see me dead, John. It wasn't me"

"But that body…"

"Molly helped me with that. It was a man already dead, from the morgue. You were in shock and half disorientated by the man with the cycle who knock you over the floor" said Sherlock.

"It looked like you… and all the people…"

"My homeless network" answered Sherlock, John nodded in understanding. "I asked them to be in that precise moment there, so that they could distract you and not letting you see the body's face."

There was a moment of silence before John asked again. "But the call… you told me you were a fake, that you had been lying. Why? WHY?" The doctor was trying hard to understand, he started to feel tension again.

"I had to." Sherlock took a deep breath once again, he had to be honest with John "Moriarty had me trapped in his hands, and I thought… I thought…"

"You thought you were not as important after all" said John, raising his voice "you thought I'd overcome this after some time. Well, you see Sherlock, YOU WERE WRONG!"

"I know" Sherlock's voice didn't sound angry, but devastated and filled with guilt. He was wrong, all the time. He knew there was no point in denying anything; he knew very well the mistake he had made. It was hard for him to admit it but it was the truth. "I… I was wrong."

"Why? Why did you do it?" John asked, frowning at Sherlock "it wasn't true, was it? All you told me about lying, using Moriarty for your purposes…"

"Yes, it was a lie" accepted Sherlock finally. John nodded while closing his eyes, accepting that after all, he had been right all along.

"One year, Sherlock. ONE DAMNED YEAR! And now you come and you say it was all a lie? Don't tell me now that the reason you've come back is that you saw me here."

The silence he got as an answer was answering enough. He looked at Sherlock, but he wasn't looking at him, for the first time in years he was avoiding his look.

"I'm sorry I disappointed you" that was said with a deep voice, much deeper than it normally was.

"No you aren't, you never are. You don't care about people, you don't care about anyone."

"I care about _you_!" shouted Sherlock, looking at his eyes again. If he was to be honest, he would be honest until the last consequences. John hadn't asked, but he would answer anyway "I pretended to be dead because Moriarty told me he had gunmen watching you" he had to stop talking and breathe for a moment "if I didn't die you would."

Sherlock kept silence, John was trying to understand. If Sherlock didn't die he would. Then, all was a lie to protect him? He had pretended to be dead, to save him?

When John looked back at Sherlock's eyes, trying to find any sign that would confirm his thoughts, he found them wet. Tears were streaming down his face; his jaw was trembling trying not to sob. And then John understood that he had not been the only one suffering. Sherlock had suffered too, and he was doing it for him, to protect him. He held his hand over Sherlock, until his fingertips touched his wet cheek, and caressed them sweetly.

"I am really sorry, John…" Sherlock's voice tried to be normal but it sounded wounded, broken, and John couldn't stand it. Sherlock may be strong enough to see him cry, but he wasn't.

With a fast gesture he took Sherlock in his arms and let him lean his head upon his shoulder. One of his hands went to his hair and started caressing it, tangling his fingers with it, while he hissed in his ear, as Sherlock had done with him before.

He wanted to speak; to tell Sherlock he understood his reasons and that he forgave him, but found out it wasn't necessary. Not with him. They both were silent for a while, enjoying again each other's company. How they both had missed that...

"You haven't told me why you did it. Why did you lie?" asked John a while later, when they both were separated and stood up from the grass.

"I thought it would make it easier for you" answered the detective. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply "if I told you I wasn't who you thought I was you would forget me much easier. A game of the mind."

"A game that didn't work. I thought you knew my opinion about you" said John, looking at him with a shadow of a smile on his lips. Sherlock smiled him back.

"I did. But I had to try"

Sherlock smiled, John smiled back. They both looked at the fake sepulcher with the name of Sherlock Holmes, and only the tombs of the cemetery heard the last words they both said to each other before going home.

"Thank you John. For believing."

"Thank _you_, Sherlock. For coming back."

**The End**

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><p><em>And this is the end! I hope you liked it, if you did I would appreciate very much any kind of comments that you have, either good or bad. Thanks very much :)<em>


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